


Something Loved

by willowthorn



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Early season TM, Echo has a big dang crush, Other, love language: mech building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27375847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowthorn/pseuds/willowthorn
Summary: Designing a mech with someone is an intimacy all it’s own
Relationships: Grand Magnificent/Echo Reverie
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Something Loved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellavarawr (notawaer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notawaer/gifts).



It is the first truly calm evening on Quire - cold air and the smell of earth, and fire, and the heat of sun-soaked rocks at the forefront now that they had some semblance of a routine down. There’s a feeling of something close to wonder still thrumming in his veins, the echo of knowledge that once this planet probably looked much different. That once, people needed to settle here. That once, humans had not laid eyes on this. Out there, there are people living that grow up with this, know nothing but this - no cramped city streets, or manic energy mounting before the biggest gallery show of the season. When those first people came here, did they have a companion beside them, blue hair whipping back in the breeze as they ran under big open skies? Grand wonders, briefly, if some had been like him- an artist, placed to round out a skill set. Not muscle, not guidance, not crafty, but creative. He wonders at the people that built a culture he hasn’t even seen yet. 

Nobody else that Grand Magnificent knows has felt this, has felt free planet-side air.

Of course, there were always adventurers, campers, explorers, naturalists - they had a thousand different names, a thousand ways to represent the first time they saw an ocean in real life, or the first time they were able to sleep without the ambient hum of their home around them. But he just never spoke to them, not seriously - something about their work lacking in the gravity and authenticity he really expected would be overflowing in their work. He wanted to see the feeling that he found here. That he wants to find here. That he’s seen again and again repeated in flimsy little images that just didn’t hit right because he didn’t have a frame of reference outside of those very same stale, repeating images.

It is an enormous feeling, so Grand does what any other artist would do. He sketches. They’re half formed things, glowing bright in the shadows of the mirage. Echo watches the way his tendons dance with the motion, his wrist rolling as he rotates it, moves it with careful concentration. He has preset brushes, stamps that he can select by tapping his fingers together. He is working from a skeleton this time, the ribbed vertebrae taking form under a note that says ‘hand tool’. He’s adding details to the face, shaking out his other wrist. And then he pauses, crumples it, and watches as the light shatters like sparks under his palm.

Echo watches him sigh, pinching his nose before leaning back, away from Echo. They can only see the curve of his cheek, the line of his shoulders easing as he looks out to the horizon. The way he rubs his knuckles, changing the settings so he can press into the air like clay. He folds the petals back on a sunflower, gives hair to the stem. It is small, a delicate thing in his palms. He blows it up, pulls the ridges of the seeds into shape like mountains. And he sends it away, throws it into the fire like a physical thing with a huff and a pinch in his brow. 

His third idea looks like it comes easily as he paints ridges they had crossed, pulls a clear day from memory. His pallet is a puddle of different coloured light swirling beside him, vibrant tones still glowing with an inner light that Grand leans into. He adds a human element to it, their node swaying as it hovers, victim to a breeze Grand creates with wispy lines, with the angle of view. But they, themselves are not present. 

Echo feels, for a moment, like they want to lean into that beautiful scene. That sense of dimension and pull, that desire for exploration removed from duty draws them close until they’re leaning over Grand’s shoulder, wondering why he sold himself as a mech designer. 

“What are you doing?” Echo asks instead, trying not to smile as Grand jumps, cursing as he has to erase the clumsy smear of magenta. 

“Shit, warn me before you do that. Painting is delicate, I don’t have unlimited editing in this mode.” Grand huffs, moving from his elbow to push the pigments back in place.

“I thought you did mechs?” Echo doesn’t move away, coming to rest just inches from Grand’s side. They loop an arm around their leg, long hair draping loose over their shoulder.

“I do. This is the concept stage.” Grand has a line between his eyebrows, and Echo can’t tell if he’s annoyed at them or annoyed at the line he keeps on putting down, redoing, pushing slightly this way or that. It takes a shake to the side and a quick flick to set it right. 

“I thought the skeleton you were working on was the concept stage.”

“No, no. That was nothing. Like… Listen. Sometimes, you want to capture a feeling. So you work backwards - what about these lines, these colours, these shapes evokes that feeling?” Grand pulls back, removes himself from the painting so he can gesture freely without adding more. 

“So why not just work from a photo?” Echo hums, eyebrows lifting as Grand snorts, indigent at the very idea.

“That’s not what I’m trying to do - I’m trying to capture the feeling, the emotion. I mean yeah I could use a photo but that would only dull the reconstruction - in memory things feel bigger, broader, richer. I want that, I don’t want some boring grassland that gets flattened by some stupid lense.” 

“Ok, then walk me through it.” Echo says, staring into that hard-light landscape. “Pretend like I’m your audience.” 

“Ok.” 

So they listen as he talks matters of scale, of colour, of light. He wants something that’s worn-in, but still has that internal glow. Something that invites curiosity and awe. He wants to see the small, inexplicable flaws that only make sense when you consider the world as alive - living, breathing. He knows a few things already. He wants to have a hand-tooled texture for the detail work. He wants to cast the iron in a very old-school way. He wants to blend that with an inner glow that’s just off from golden in the legs, clear bright blue in the mouth. He wants it to feel like old, twisted grassland trees and wind-smooth rock in motion. He wants it to spread native grasses wherever it goes. He wants it to be an animal in shape, but he doesn’t know any of the local fauna well enough to know immediately how they move, how they fit into the environment. He pauses, tries to pull shapes from memory in order to show Echo exactly what he meant.

Echo watches him slowly, carefully draw a gazelle on the bare dirt between their feet. He gives a detailed account of the leg length, the spine curvature, the facing of the eyes and the size of the ears - how each of these things were purposefully refined after hundreds of years to suit the environmental niche of the species. He draws some ancient looking thing with three toes and forward facing eyes and a hundred antlers. He draws something with big brown eyes and a strange, strange nose. He draws something nearly human, antlers reaching up toward the sky while it sits, legs crossed. He draws them all for Echo, gives them history, and when they look up again, the light of the day is totally gone. There’s just Grand, glowing and focused in the orange light of the fire. 

“Well?” Grand’s dark eyes have sparks in them, excitement and expectation pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, that’s pretty cool.” Echo smiles at him, the warmth of the day still lingering on their skin. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything like that - I’ll come grab you if it isn’t anything dangerous.” 

And for a moment, in the soft light, they feel a need to lean in, to move with Grand as he leans down to brush away his drawings. But they don’t know him that well yet - they’re coworkers first, of course. They’re coworkers, so Echo doesn’t move, just stands and stretches out their arms. 

“Well, I should pack it in - I’m on watch after Even.” They miss the way Grand takes in the lines of their movement, follows the fall of their hair and how they roll through the stretch from their head to their toes with focused curiosity, as if trying to memorize their lines. They miss the slight look of disappointment. 

“Oh, yeah, goodnight. I’ll just - finish up here.” 

That evening, and the next, Grand watches his hands as they sketch the shape of strong legs, bright eyes, antlers that follow the shape of the wind. He thinks it is too recognizable, so he strips it of its face, hangs a beautiful cloth between the horns, there to shade the pilot as they sit where the brain would be. It doesn’t feel quite right anymore. But it is beautiful, so he braids hanging vines on the underside of its neck. It feels like a garden, not a grassland. 

He decides to hold onto it, rather than scrapping it. He shows it to Echo on their way to the Church, talks himself into talking to Even about what kind of plants would work best, how to wire the hydroponics system so it doesn’t risk pinching between moving parts. 

Echo watches him, and laughs quietly to themself while thinking of werewolves, and weeds, and firelight conversations. 

For a while, that is all forgotten. There’s the fight, the Doyenne, and they all have their own projects. They have dinner as a group, but Grand is distracted now that there are towns so near to them, now that he can finally sink his fingers into whatever quaint culture he wants to imagine living here. Whatever had been there - that tentative little glow illuminated by firelight and careful attention - slowly relaxes its grip on Echo, and they forget love, or lust, or whatever that crush could have ended up becoming. 

And then it’s just the two of them. The garage smells of motor oil and metal, and Grand has a bit of grease smeared on his cheeks, his sleeves rolled up. He has the fading remains of a sunburn lining his skin, and Echo finds it easy to talk through what they want their mech - their mech! - to look like. And Grand is silent when they talk about their lack of chip, thankfully. He just nods, making some notes as to what to adjust for. Which is what Echo wanted. What they expected.

But it feels nice anyway. 

They lift glass and metal together, and it’s easy to laugh as Grand’s hands slip slightly, palms sweaty in the heat of the day. They keep it steady for him as he balances carefully, taking the weight onto one arm and then the other, cleaning off his palms with a rag he had stuffed in his back pocket. They feel a heat on the back of their neck as they watch muscle tense, showing strength that they had totally missed when it was hidden by flannel. 

They watch his back, watch how the fabric of his shirt moves with his shoulder muscle as he leans into circuit boards and hundreds of delicate little wires. They watch as he stretches, that same shirt showing the soft curve of his stomach, a small trail of hair visible before he pulls it back down. If it wasn’t for the intensity of his focus on the task in front of him, the way he smiles at Echo when things finally, finally start taking shape and he tests the motion on the hand - smooth, without a second of hesitation… If it wasn’t for those little things, Echo would think that he was doing this on purpose. That sets a little golden something fluttering in their guts, a sigh of frustration on their lips as they excuse themselves to get some water. 

They’re just coworkers. They’re just coworkers, so Echo makes themselves head back in there after a long drink of water. Grand seems happy to see them back, immediately getting them to test some basic controls. 

Sige finds ways of excusing himself, when it’s not essential for him to be there. He’s a busy man, so it’s easy, especially as the hours drift long and it becomes evident that even with the fabricator the formal assembly of Echo’s very own mech will be a multi-day affair.

They end the evening what feels like too early for Echo, the sun just barely skimming the horizon. Despite the grease and the grit, they’re only just slightly sweaty from the warm afternoon. They do the same the next day, Grand already working by the time Echo finishes breakfast. There’s a cup of coffee on the edge of the scaffolding they had put in place together. He has spools of wire beside him too, a colourful array that flow like nerves from the back of their mech. The air itself is still cool, and Grand doesn’t notice them, not until they clear their throat a few minutes later, two fresh cups of coffee in their hands. 

“Hey, thought you might need a refresh.” They call up to him, lifting one of the mis-matched mugs. They look hand made - blue glaze, brown flecks, the kind of handle where you can all but see the curve of the potter’s thumb as they pulled it. 

“Thanks!” Grand calls down, leaning over the side of the scaffolding with a smile. “Stay perfectly still for a minute, alright? Keep the mug up.” 

He disappears back into the wires for a moment, the body of their mech humming to life with a thunk Echo can feel in their ribcage. They watch the arm move slowly down to them, points of articulation flexing - for a moment, they want to back away, they want to spare the mug a gruesome fate. But in a second it’s gone, the mug on the way up to where Grand sits, a smug look on his face. 

“Not bad, right? You should be able to get a lot of range - I made sure the joints were flexible enough, and the motor skills fine enough. I’ll want you to give it a full run once the connections are all soldered, and then we can paint it.”

He touches the metal unyielding like it is a precious thing. They move up the scaffolding easily, and Grand does not reach a hand towards them. But they watch as he drinks deeply from his coffee. They watch his hands, confident and precise as they move through the innards of a mech that hadn’t really existed two days ago and Echo sees for the first time that despite his access, despite the tools those of his trade usually used, there are patches of roughness on his hands. That there are small, pale scars over the knuckles. 

Echo comes to know in those days why Grand was chosen - and why he chose to be a mech designer. Love for the art breathes out of him, his enthusiasm matched pace for pace with skill. And in many ways, Echo’s mech is a terrible, disconcerting thing. They see the way Seige hesitates just slightly, once the thing is crouched within the confines of the garage. But they love it, finding their enthusiasm matching Grand’s own. 

Painting just didn’t have the same scale, the same physicality and intimacy of mech designing, Grand had said when they had been walking towards Old Church, comparing the colours that Echo saw him lay down just 12 hours ago to the sky above them. The saturation was off, the scale off in a way Echo knew was intentional. They think of the intimacy he mentioned, of conversations both brief and winding.

Grand's hands brush their own when he explains little internal features he added - a place to put their coat, a place to put a basic first aid kit, a place to put whatever small thing they needed to get through whatever they would face in this uncanny, beautiful thing. It’s hard not to react, to not feel the warmth pooling in their stomach at his confidence, at his focus, at the way his hand jumped slightly after brushing theirs. How they could almost see a flush of red at the tips of his ears. 

It’s just that sunburn he got. They’re just coworkers. 

They can’t stand it. 

The night air, when it comes, embraces them. Echo sits on the roof, head tilted back against the slow breeze. They breathe in slowly, the light of the moons painting silver in their hair, casting the lines of their nose, their cheek, their eyes into stark relief. They think of hands, warm from work, strong as they dance through the air. They think of what the pressure of those palms would feel like. Of that smile reserved for beautiful, powerful things turned towards them. Of their name on his lips. 

Echo groans, the heel of their palm putting pressure on their eye. They had nearly forgotten how much crushes suck. 

Of course they try to carry it off with ease. They don’t dwell on it at all - not at all - but spend a bit more time than usual showing just how capable they were, how they could maneuver easily around the outside of their mech with such ease. And yeah, maybe they didn’t need to show just how flexible they were while addressing this one particularly hard to reach spot, and they didn’t try to catch Grand looking the few times they had to flip their hair out of the way. 

But the thing is, they did. And they caught him looking, eyebrows raised just slightly. Of course, there were all sorts in memorious - Grand had probably seen contortionists and stunt-people at one physical arts showcase or other. But it keeps his eyes on them, even once they stop, even when they sit together at lunch. It’s a gamble, it always is, but Echo feels more and more that it might be a good one.

They try to notice if that look is different from the ones he’s given them before, but he keeps looking away, or talking about some fine detail on the origins of the particular technique he used to improve the dexterity and grip of all three of the mech’s hands. He speculates on how the course of the year would impact the functionality of the design. He wonders if there are seasons here, like some of the planets he had seen. He wonders how Echo would look in a backdrop of snow, or amongst blossoms. He keeps that part to himself, but Grand is a nervous talker so it’ll only be a matter of time before he inevitably says something. He’d have to leave the group, head over and join the Crown and never return. There was just no way around it, really.

So he tries not to let Echo see how his heart leaps when they let out this delighted, surprised sound when they take their mech on their first true trial run. How when they grin at him, so wide and full of joy it sends a jolt of electricity down his spine when they put their arm around them, thank him for building it for them. 

He says something. He barely pays attention to what actually came out of his mouth, but their warm arm leaves him and punches him lightly in the arm instead. It’s more comfortable like that, he tells himself. It doesn’t feel like there’s a fire under his skin, doesn’t feel like he’ll choke on his own breath in a minute. 

Luckily for both of them, it is easy to get distracted once they’re in Glass. Grand gets a new project, and Echo doesn’t see him for days. He sleeps in a separate place from the rest of them, doesn’t keep the same hours, doesn’t join them for meals. They’ll see him, sure, but he’s obviously distracted.

And slowly, inch by inch, that warm feeling threatens to turn into this bitter little thing in Echo’s chest. Of course, they shouldn’t have hoped too much. They shouldn’t have dwelled on glances and brief touches. They sleep alone in their room, sheets cool against their back until they begin to drift. It’s easy to fall back into their usual patterns, especially with so much to occupy their waking hours. 

And just as they are so sure they’re over it, that things would go back to where they were at the start of all this, they find Grand standing in front of their room, hair mussed and slightly sleep deprived. He doesn’t say anything for a beat, and when he reaches out for their hand they let him.

His palms are warm as he guides Echo’s hand to rest face up, placing something in Echo’s hand that barely fits inside the curve of their hand. Echo can see bits of smooth white glowing between Grand’s fingers before they lift away, leaving Echo with a sitting creature, small legs with an internal glow, gossamer fabric suspended between its tiny horns. 

They remember the sketch, of course. How Grand talked of the importance of scale, of getting the right grasses but also the right air. It was supposed to be a peaceful thing, something that made people pause. Something beautiful, delicate despite its true enormity.

Echo doesn’t know what to say, so they lift the thing, watch as the legs unfurl with the movement. It stands maybe four inches tall, perfectly balanced. 

“Neat.” They say, wiggling their finger under the veil to try and lift it - they can see a figure in miniature sitting between where the eyes would have been. 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about that night.” Grand isn’t looking at them, not really, his focus on pressing the tension out of his wrist. “I thought getting that design out of my head would help, but it doesn’t. So you can keep it, or do whatever. It doesn’t quite fit, but I…. It was nice, designing with you. Not just for you, but that was really nice too, but it… You know, I’m just going to go take a nap.” 

And he’s leaving, just like that. 

It feels inevitable, in a way, when Echo reaches out. They don’t think about it, but then their free hand is grabbing his wrist, and Grand is turning back to them. There’s surprise there, a streak of nervousness. 

“Hey, listen. Do you want to grab a coffee or something once you’re done whatever you’re doing for the Doyenne?” The little antelope is cradled in the crook of their arm, Grand’s tension visibly leaving his body as he turns back to Echo. 

“Yeah, we can do coffee. I just heard about this great place like three blocks away from here - I think they might do a jelly juice too, but if not then hey we can always go back to the Old Gold and..” And because they know Grand won’t stop talking, and because they want to be sure that their intentions are crystal clear, Echo leans in just slightly, squeezing his wrist lightly as their lips find his cheek. 

“O-ok! Great! Coffee when I’m done with the Doyenne, with you.” Grand chokes, red spilling across his cheeks. 

“Yep, with me. You gonna be alright?” Echo is smiling, warm and gentle, and Grand wants to melt right then and there. 

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. I’ll see you then?” Grand’s smile hides just slightly as he tilts his head down, watching as he removes Echo’s hand from his wrist to tangle their fingers together instead.

“Of course, wouldn't miss it.” Echo decides their hands look nice together, their fingers brushing against Grand’s knuckles. They watch him run his thumb against the back of their hand, memorizing the strength and give of muscle and tendons.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey good luck out there everyone


End file.
